The Last Days of Autumn
by Marbledemon
Summary: The spoils of war are hard on those left to suffer. Aravethiel, dragon priestess of the arts of healing and restoration, trapped in her tower by the invading forces, is left helpless and contemplating the cruel fate life weaves for each and everyone of us.


_**So this is a little experiment I'm trying. First time I publish one of my stories, this is just a small foretaste of things to come. Comments/criticism? Please tell me, always eager to improve :) Also, if someone would like to proof-read this or that, just contact me - it always helps.**_

 _ **The main character Aravethiel is pretty much just taken from here, owned by Adalfyre.**_

 _ **Anyways, enjoy! More to come eventually.**_

 **I**

The cool afternoon wind brushed gently over her skin. Golden light gleamed from the white spires and terraces covering the slopes of Capitol Hill, with the sun burning up above the ocean beyond the city. The light stung in her eyes. Aravethiel lifted her hands from the balustrade and straightened herself. She turned, feeling the sunlight on her back as she went back inside. The breeze brought the sound of Sunswallows with it, chirping their songs as they fluttered in and out of the many crevices and alcoves adorning the tower's walls, their mind set on enjoying every last sunbeam. A day this beautiful was not meant for defeat. The booming of the drums was audible even up here. A steady rhythm; ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom.

Golden specks of light fell upon the marble floor. From hanging flowerpots, vines and ranks spilled down in cascades of green, fallen leaves scattered below. If she put her mind to it, the screams outside were almost inaudible; merely the peaks of a bustling city, not the cries of a dying people. Was there blood in the streets? Senseless slaughter? She did not know. She did not want to know. Her life was devoted to the arts of healing and restoration, not warfare and conflict. This war had been kindled by the Conclave, yet when its tide turned hostile and cruel, they likewise turned on their own people, blaming the spiritual orders and tearing the common folk apart; who were now the ones paying for it, victims to the spoils of war, to the cruelty of the Forsaken and their lust for blood and suffering.

The echo of footsteps preceded the chancellor. The narrow, steep steps to the tower were unfit for his massive statue, and as she heard him struggle for breath at the top of the stairs, the image of a gluttonous pig forming in her mind, she shuddered in disgust. The peasants had nothing; few of the city's pets would make it through the winter.

She could her him just outside her door now, clothes shuffling as he tried to rearrange himself into a decent composure. Of course he did not knock. As he waddled into the room, her gaze met his, fiery eyes of molten gold staring into puddles of tarnished silver. The chancellor stumbled to close the heavy door behind him, averting his eyes. He grabbed the red sash marking him as head of council and pushed it back on his shoulder. Aravethiel stood silent, waiting for him to speak. Outside, the birds chirped.

"I'm sorry to intrude, my lady, but their king has requested your ... attendance at the crowning ceremony." He cleared his throat, awaiting her response. His gaze flickered over to her, then away, unable to meet her stare. A coward in all but name. Scales once a brilliant bronze were now ragged flecks of mud, unevenly covering his body with more and more of the flaky, crumbling skin showing beneath. Bony hands clutched the seam of his sash, shaky in their movement.

"Mistress? I'm sorry, but we have to hurry, he said that it was an order, and that there would be no exceptions for-" She interrupted him. "Orders? Orders from a savage brute, one that ravaged country and people, and now feels capable of ruling a nation that is not his?" The claws on her bare feet clicked on the floor as she strode toward him. "A nation dragged into war by the very people chosen to protect it, by you! And now you want to give me orders on how to behave, to play sheep while the wolves devour the herd?" He move back, raising his hands as if to apologize. "Mistress, I -" "You do not ... You will never have the right to tell me how to behave. You caused this, and you shall feel the consequences. I will not bow to either of you, so tell your master to search for another pet!" She had cornered him against the door. Meekly, he tried to shield himself from her outburst and opened his mouth to retort. She raised her hand. A few whispered words, and purple flames started to lick on her fingers, crawling out of her closed hand. She watched the chancellor recoil from her in fear. "Now leave", she hissed, letting the flames grow and envelop her hand. She moved back as he groped for the door handle, stumbling out without another word. It was so easy. She felt weariness overcome her, taking the edge off her sudden anger. Years and years of disputes with the council had made her senses keen to the buttons she could push, the reactions she could evoke. It almost came as a second skin to her, the trade of speechcraft and bribery, the knowledge of weaknesses and fears; the chancellor's fright of flames, the head guardian's craving for mead. Defeated, she dropped her hands. How could this happen? The gentle, wise Aravethiel throwing a fit when faced with her own defeat? She did not want to admit it, distressed in thoughts as she paced around the room, but she was just as much to blame as the chancellor. She snorted bitterly, blowing smoke out of her nostrils. Up here in her ivory tower, the concerns of the people were just as insignificant to her as they were to those on Capitol Hill.

The screams outside had stopped. Had the invaders satisifed their bloodlust, or was there just no one left to punish? She dared not look. A glass of wine would steady her nerves, calm her thoughts.

When the guards came for her a few moments later, she followed them without a word.


End file.
